And There He Sits Forever
by DoctorAuthor
Summary: After a case gone wrong, John is left permanently wounded, and starts having doubts about how much he really means to Sherlock- and everyone else- now that he is. Having to deal with this new life is extremely difficult for John, but how will he save Sherlock when his friend is abducted by the very lunatic who did this to him? Eventual Johnlock. Please read and review!
1. Murder and Germanophobia

**A/N: So this is supposed to turn into a Johnlock. Hope you all enjoy! If you find any mistakes, please tell me, I will fix it. ON WITH THE STORY!**

* * *

For Sherlock, it had all happened very quickly.

The detective gazed at John lying in the hospital bed, still having yet to wake up and embrace his new life. Sherlock felt horrible about not being aware at the time where it would have changed everything. During the danger, if he had just been more alert, more on his guard, he had his back to a criminal with a gun for God's sakes! And now John was-

Sherlock didn't want to think about it.

Sherlock rewound his memories to start from the beginning and make sure he didn't overlook anything. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe John would be fine. And maybe Sherlock had messed everything up, John hated him, John was far to good for the likes of selfish Sherlock.

It started out with a case, as usual. Lestrade had come to Sherlock and John with an interesting case. A woman, found dead in her shower. She was mostly dry, with no marks on her. There was no blood or injections they could find.

It went quickly enough. They found out that the woman was German, from Berlin, and she had a string of failed marriages. At first, the suspect was her first husband. He was still in love with her, and, if he couldn't have her, no one could.

Sherlock had dismissed the idea when they had interrogated the man. He was dimwitted and weighed ninety pounds. John remembered Sherlock saying something about his hands.

"Found anything?" John asked as he walked into the forensics lab. He was sure that they should question the woman's other two spouses.

"Nazi."

John eyed him strangely. "Excuse me?" Sherlock didn't look up from what he was peering at through the microscope. "Nazi. Her grandfather was a Nazi."

"And you think she was murdered because of that?"

"Precisely, John, excellent," the detective said. "The pesticide Zyklon B was found in her lungs. It's widely known as what the Nazis poisoned their prisoners with in their gas chambers. Someone wanted revenge."

"So," John finished for him,"we just have to find out who." Sherlock stood with a flourish of his coat. "Yes."

They found a suspect, a friend of the victim's. The man's name was Oskar Olsewski, named after his grandfather who had been killed in front of his daughter at a concentration camp, the man's mother. He had a history of hospitalizations and the like.

They called Lestrade and told him the address. Sherlock had pulled John along by his wrist, exclaiming that Oskar would be packing and hunting for his next victim by the time Lestrade and his people got there. So Sherlock and John went to Oskar's house alone.

Sherlock rapped on the door. No one answered. He did it again. Not a soul. The detective mouthed "Follow me" to John, then turned the knob and pushed on the silent door.

The inside of the house was exposed to the two. Sherlock stepped inside, and a harpoon flew into the wall directly next to his head. John swallowed.

Sherlock pointed out a spot at the top of the stairs directly in front of them where the shadows were just a bit darker.

"Mr. Olsweski," Sherlock called. "Come down unarmed with your hands raised. We don't want any trouble."

"They did," came a hiss from the top of the stairs. "They killed them. 6 million innocent people!"

"We understand," Sherlock said,"and we can talk about it. Please come down unarmed."

"No you _don't_!"

Another harpoon hit the floor dangerously close to Sherlock's foot and the thumping of shoes on the floor sounded throughout the house. John and Sherlock were, on instinct, bounding up the stairs in pursuit.

There were two hallways, one leading left and the other right. All was silent.

"Split up," the detective ordered, and he disappeared down the left hallway. John took the right one, checking every door on each side with such caution that they squeaked.

He saw what was in each one: Most of them empty, a washing machine, a bedroom, one with a piano. John was pushing open the second to last one on the left when he heard a yell.

"Sherlock?" he called down the hallway, and swore he could smell something burning. Was that the sound of a fire roaring? "Sherlo-"

John was cut off when someone surprised him from behind and had something around his throat, tugging on it so he could speak, couldn't breath.

"Sh...sh...uuuhhh...hhhhrrr...log...ck!" he wheezed, his fingers grasping at the thing around his neck, his vision beginning to blur. John gasped for air, yet nothing came. He called for Sherlock, his voice reduced to a breath, a huff, of restrained air, yet no one came. His legs have out and he crumpled to the floor. His assailant followed him and didn't give up his attack.

John was sure that this was how he would die. Being sneaked up on by a coward who was choking out his final breath of air. There was nothing, now, no more oxygen, everything had turned a strange shade of white that was slowly fading...

He had stopped struggling a long time ago, but the man had no mercy. John's legs had given out in an attempt to slip from the clutches of the murderer, who seemed intent on repeating it. He was on the floor, with nothing left but shame. It was humiliating to die from something so trivial, as Sherlock would surely think when John was gone.

John thought he heard faint footsteps and a voice calling a word that sounded like his name, and an idea popped into his head.

THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! That was the sound John's foot made against the wall. It was loud, or, at least, John hoped so. Loud enough to get Sherlock's attention before he died.

The footsteps got louder, but John was practically gone. Right before the pressure on his throat let up, everything went very black.

It was nice, in this state. Peaceful. Not gone. Almost, but not quite. John wasn't there, either. He was stuck in the middle. The black was more of a gray, but it started to grow darker and darker. John felt wonderfully peaceful, in this bliss. It was like falling asleep. John felt himself slipping away...

"_John_!"

John was snapped from his trance-like state. The voice that had cried his name had cut through everything else. He sat up and started to cough. It hurt, but he couldn't stop. He gasped for breath, needing it so bad.

"What-" John coughed,"-What happened?" His voice was a bed of sharp nails.

"You weren't breathing," Sherlock replied, hauling John to his feet. The doctor wobbled a little and leaned against the wall, still wheezing harshly. He didn't seem to be able to get enough air in.

"He's still in the house somewhere," Sherlock thought aloud. "He just wants to play a game. Come on, he went down the other hallway. Last door on the right."

John was still a bit woozy and stumbled as he followed his friend, but was sturdy in no time and was jogging with Sherlock.

They stopped at the beginning of the hallway. Sherlock peered around the corner to make sure it was clear. John's senses had returned and he could smell something burning. He looked up and saw that Sherlock's bangs were darker than the rest of his hair and were smoking.

"Did he do that to your hair?" John whispered, though he didn't recognize his own voice, it was so rough and throaty. He sounded like he did when he caught cold.

"Yes," was the curt and quiet response. "I opened a door and was greeted with a flamethrower. It singed off a bit of my hair, but that isn't important. It's barely as serious as you nearly being choked to death. If I hadn't gotten there in time, you would..." he trailed off, and John stared at him, suspicious. The detective looked unsure. Pained. His expression hardened back into its usual neutral stone. "You sound like a growling badger, by the way."

Sherlock edged his way down the hallway with John following him. They made their way to the last door on the right side and Sherlock stopped. He reached his hand out, so slowly, so slowly, and took ahold of the doorknob.

The door was shoved open and Sherlock and John burst inside. John nearly dropped his gun at what was inside, but did drop his jaw.

Pictures. The most horrid pictures to have as part of a shrine, if you could call it that. Pictures of Hitler and swastikas everywhere, with large red Xs covering them. Pictures of people in concentration camps, wearing striped clothing. People who were so thin that they could have been skeletons if not for the skin and large, bulging eyes. Dead people, barely living people crying over the dead people. Dead adults. Dead children.

It was shrine to the Holocaust. Well, it wasn't a shrine, really. It was a collection of evidence of it and one person's brooding over it, hating the Nazi existence.

"Sherlock," came John's hoarse whisper. That was all he said.

"This is intriguing," the detective murmured. He walked up to the one wall with one of the pictures of the concentration camp inmates. He didn't notice the muffled gasp behind him.

"John, look at this," Sherlock said, his eyes glued to the pictures. "This man has dedicated his life...to this." He reached out a thin hand.

"Don't touch it."

The detective spun around to see their murderer, Oskar Olsewski. He was gazing at Sherlock quite calmly from the other side of the room. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad. He didn't even look smug or pleased, even though he had a knife at John's throat and a hand over the doctor's mouth. Sherlock's gun was up and aiming straight for the dangerous man's head right away.

"So you've found me and my little..." Oskar sucked in a breath and looked around,"interest."

"Obsession, more like it," the detective shot back. Oskar shrugged, the knife moving up on John's throat and making the doctor crane his neck to keep himself from being injured.

"You could say that. But I suggest you don't insult me, Mr. Holmes. I have the upper hand, and I also have your friend in a rather unfortunate predicament."

Sherlock glanced at John, who was trying to keep his eyes calm in an attempt to tell Sherlock that he was alright. Sherlock wasn't so sure he was.

"So what will you do now?" Sherlock challenged. Oskar rubbed his thumb on John's chin. "I could kill you."

"But where would be the fun in that?" the detective suggested. Keep him occupied, at least until Lestrade comes. Keep John from being injured further.

"If you kill us," Sherlock said,"you won't be any better than them. We've just come to help you. If you kill us, you'll be just like them. A Nazi. A murderer."

"I'm not a murderer," was the immediate response. Sherlock raised an eyebrow without letting to of his neutral expression. "But you've already killed one person, haven't you? She was innocent. One of her old boyfriends was Jewish. You killed her. Granted, Zyklon B in her shower was rather creative. Not original, definitely obvious, but interesting. How did you do it?"

"How would you have done it?" Oskar shot back. He was beginning to loosen up, the knife at John's throat less threatening now.

Where is Lestrade? Sherlock thought. Just keep stalling. The poor excuse for a DI should have been here by now, which means he'll be here any moment.

When Sherlock failed to answer, Oskar smiled. "Ah, I see. Trying to keep me from doing anything. Well that won't work!" The weapon was pressed against John's thin flesh harder now, the hand covering his mouth tightening. Blood appeared and the doctor let out a muffled, nearly silent whimper.

Sherlock moved a step closer. "STAY BACK!" Oskar boomed. The knife drew more blood from John's throat as it was tightened against it. "I swear, if you come any closer, I'll- I'll- I'll tickle him!"

The mood was nearly dampened, and Sherlock was about to make a smart comment to the crazy man when he heard footsteps thumping up the stairs. He raised an eyebrow at Oskar.

"It seems that your time is up, Mr. Olsewski."

He started to panic, the knife shaking on John's neck. "N-no. No, I can still make them pay! Those bloody Nazis deserve worse than what my grandfather and mother were put through! She had a heart attack because she had a nightmare of her father at the hands of the Nazis! And she died!"

The door was shoved open and Lestrade and ten officers barged in. Oskar turned away, dragging John with him, turning around to stand next to Sherlock and face the newcomers.

"Drop the knife," Lestrade ordered. "If you do not, we won't hesitate to shoot."

The weapon trembled along with the murderer's hand and finally fell from his grip next to John's foot. Oskar fell to his knees and began to sob. "They started it! It was all their fault! They were evil! They _are_ evil! Evil!"

John's legs gave out, and he fell backwards, his breathing labored. Sherlock caught him, placing his gun in the holster and supporting his friend's weight. John breathed,"Alright, I- I'm alright." He stood on his own, his legs trembling the slightest bit.

Sherlock untied his scarf and wrapped it around John's bleeding neck. The red flowed from the wound, and Sherlock tied it tightly.

Oskar was stood up as well and had two officers on either side of him. He stood in front of the door, glaring at the two who had beaten his fun house of torture.

"I didn't kill her," he growled. "She had it coming! Her grandfather was a Nazi and she didn't expect to be punished for that?"

"She was innocent," Sherlock replied. "You are as much a Nazi as her grandfather was. You killed an innocent person and you don't expect to be punished for that?"

An expression of infinite rage distorted the murderer's features. "_6 million dead because of those bastards! You remind me of each and every one of the_m!" He had to be held back by the two officers and it took both of their strength not to let him go flying at the detective.

"Goodbye, Mr. Olsewski," John croaked. The man stopped his struggling, though he was still seething and breathing hard. He was turned around to walk out.

"That went quite well, don't you think, John?" Sherlock smirked. The detective turned to look out the window. His friend smiled but didn't answer. The doctor looked back up at Oskar being led out, instead of turning around like his friend.

Sherlock gazed out the window, still thinking about the people in the concentration camps. He had been to the Holocaust Museum and had been absolutely fascinated. Mycroft had refused to accompany him, claiming it too horrid and strange for human eyes.

He heard a loud gasp, a familiar click, but before he could turn around he was being shoved to his left and he collided with the wall.

He swiveled around, knowing that John had done it. Sherlock opened his mouth to ask what he done it for, but nothing came out at what his eyes were greeted with.

John, his face extremely pale, on the floor, sitting up against the wall. He was trembling and his breathing was labored. Sherlock's breathing hitched.

John had pushed him out of the way. Out of the way of the bullet. John had put himself in the path of the gun that could have killed him.

Sherlock noticed that John was struggling to breath. He dove down and landed on his knees in front of his friend, taking either side of his friend's face in his thin hands

"John? John! John, answer me. John!" John didn't seem to hear him. His eyes were foggy and confused. Sherlock was desperate now. This shouldn't be happening. This shouldn't be happening. This wasn't right.

"John!" Sherlock almost screamed. He shook his friend's head.

The doctor's eyes became more serious. They finally focused on Sherlock. "John, listen to me. Stay awake. You must stay awake. You're fine, everything's fine, just stay with me, _please_." The detective was trying to persuade and comfort himself as much as he was John.

"Sherlock..." John mumbled, eyelids drooping. "...can't f-feel..." The brown eyes closed and didn't open. Sherlock shook his friend's face.

"John? _John_!"

* * *

**A/N: Will John live? What happened to him? Will one gunshot change his life? Is Sherlock in love? Does this count as a cliffhanger? Are John's eyes really brown, or did I just make that up? STAY TUNED.  
**

**Also, please read and review! I appreciate them all! :)  
**


	2. Bad News

**A/N: Wow, that was quick! This chapter is short, sorry, but it's very important, I promise! It has Johnangst, for all of you out there who likes that, this is for you!**

* * *

John wasn't in a coma. That's what the doctor had said. Sherlock hadn't really been listening, though, and didn't have the heart to snap back a witty comment about John speaking for himself when he woke up, which hadn't happened yet.

If he woke up.

The doctor had said that there wasn't serious damage. It had been a clean hit, with a considerable amount of blood but not much to fix save for extracting the bullet and patching up the wound. There was a small transfusion needed, but there wasn't anything else.

That is, until they saw the X-rays.

It couldn't be fixed, the doctors had said. John would have to live a new life now that this had happened. He'd need a lot more help, with everything, even dressing. His job would be more complicated now.

Sherlock didn't listen. John's life was ruined. Nothing would be the same. No jumping from building to building. No races across the city to run from officers. No sitting on the stairs and laughing.

He heard a groan and looked up to see John stirring in the hospital bed. Brown eyes fluttered open and he stared at the ceiling. "...Sherlock?"

"I'm right here, John," the detective swallowed the sudden guilt at having to break the news to his friend. "How, uh...how do you feel?"

"My back hurts...and so does my head and neck." He reached up and touched the bandages around his throat in a delicate manner.

"And the rest of you?"

"No, I'm..." the doctor trailed off. "Sherlock..."

"What is it, John?" He was concerned, even though he knew what was wrong, knew all of the details, had them embedded in his brain, even though he tried to delete them.

"Sherlock," John said,"my legs feel...strange." The doctor stared down at his own legs, realizing that he was wrong. "No- no, they...they don't. I can't-" He looked up at his friend. Fear filled the big brown eyes that Sherlock loved so much.

"Sherlock," John murmured,"I can't feel my legs at all."

So Sherlock took John's hand and told him, his gray eyes on the white hospital blankets covering his friend. "When you were shot, the bullet hit your spine. They were able to give you a blood transfusion and patch it up fine, but..."

John stared at him. "Sherlock?" It came out as a whisper. The detective finally looked up in time to see his friend blink back tears. "I'm never going to walk again, aren't I?"

"The- the doctors said that, in time, maybe you could-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. His eyes begged Sherlock to give him the blatant truth. The detective finally pursed his lips. "No, John. You're paralyzed from the waist down. You'll have to use a wheelchair. You'll never walk again."

John nodded. "Fine. That's fine." He leaned back against the bed. His friend eyed him. "John? Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Sherlock asked with the utmost sincerity. He squeezed John's hand, not really realizing it once he had done it.

"Go."

He was taken by surprise. "What?"

"Go. Leave. I need to think." Sherlock presumed that that was John's way of saying that he didn't want Sherlock to see him crying, so he nodded and exited the hospital room.

John waited for Sherlock to leave the room to start thinking. The man could basically read his thoughts by how much of his underwear was showing.

John didn't expect Sherlock to return to his hospital room. He didn't expect the detective to come back to the hospital at all, save for new cases.

Because what use was a doctor who was paralyzed from the waist down?

Sherlock didn't need John. Now that John was actually, physically, unchangeably disabled, what use would the world's only consulting detective for him? The doctor was sure that his friend didn't even need him to blog. Sherlock just thought it was boring. He could write a blog that would bring in five times as many viewers than John's dumb old blog. He just had John doing it for him instead.

John was useless now. Condemned to a life in a wheelchair. Never walking again. Why would Sherlock want him now? He wasn't interesting. He was baseless; he couldn't even take a shower without someone's help.

Why would the brilliant Sherlock Holmes ever want to cross paths with an invalid like John Watson?

That thought was what made John Watson start to cry.

* * *

**A/N: So this was a bit short**


	3. Coming Home to a New Life

**A/N: Here's Chapter 3! Any mistakes I've made, please tell me so I can fix them. And Review, I love them all, even if they're negative. Without further ado, here you are!**

* * *

John was very quiet when he was in the hospital. He didn't request for Sherlock and didn't text him or give any indication that he wanted him to visit him. The detective wondered how his friend was doing, and was sorely tempted to go to him, but was afraid of trying his patience.

The doctor in the hospital told him the same thing every time he came to check on John: That John would never walk again, but if he took Physical Therapy, then there was a chance that he might gain control of his legs again one day. For the meantime, John wheeled around the hospital a lot, practicing. Of course, he would be doing that a lot.

John was eventually discharged from the hospital, because there was really nothing they could do for him. They were allowed a ride home with one of the nurses who was going home for the day. (She thought the two of them were adorable together and believed them to be a couple.) They were dropped off in front of their flat door. Sherlock got out first, set up the wheelchair and helped John into it.

There was the step leading up to the door. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but said nothing as he tilted the wheelchair back, getting the front wheels on first, and then up, easing it and its occupant onto the step.

Sherlock wheeled John inside and they saw the steps up to their rooms.

John hid his eyes in his hand, looking exasperated and ashamed. Sherlock paled, his expression livid, and shouted for Mrs. Hudson.

The landlady came at once, and the detective saw that her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. She took one look at John and gasped, almost bursting into a fresh set of tears.

"Oh, John!" she wailed. "I'm so sorry!"

"We don't need your pity, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock snapped. "Don't you have a sturdy ramp of some kind?" The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, boys, but I'll get one as soon as I can-"

Sherlock interrupted her with a sharp groan. "We will simply have to make due, then." He swooped John out of the wheelchair and into his arms, bridal style.

"Sh- Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "Put me down right now!" Though he wanted to be back in his wheelchair, he certainly did not want to be dropped, and held on tightly to his friend's shoulders and jacket.

Sherlock would do no such thing. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, a rare and devious smile on his face. Once he saw her crack her own fond smirk, he started up the stairs with John in his arms.

"Sherlock! I- I'm serious!" John stuttered when he threatened to laugh. This was all very unexpected, and he couldn't help but smile at his friend's antics.

"How else am I supposed to get you up here?" Sherlock excused his actions. He took John into his apartment and set him on his favorite chair, then went downstairs to bring up the wheelchair. John let himself grin as he watched his friend go.

xxxxx

That night, Sherlock lie on the couch, thinking about the case, about how brilliantly interesting Oskar Olsewski and his Holocaust obsession was.

John was sleeping in Sherlock's room, and the detective had no means of taking it away from him. It was basically John's room now, since it was far too much trouble to carry him down two flights of stairs. No doubt it was embarrassing for the doctor already. Sherlock was beginning to wonder of the pictures on the walls when he heard something from outside his room.

The sound was muffled, purposely, he could tell. It continued for several seconds before pausing and then starting up again. Sherlock knew exactly what it was.

John was crying. Sherlock could identify it from the couch. He had plenty of reasons to cry, Sherlock supposed, though it seemed rather pointless to him.

He had a challenging new life, completely different from his old one. That was certainly a lot of pressure.

He would never walk again. Yes, that was true. And a lot of information to take in all at once.

He doesn't want me to see him cry. No one ever wants other people to see them cry. Especially an ex-soldier.

There was something else. Something Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. Was it something else he couldn't do? He couldn't jump roofs of buildings with Sherlock anymore, couldn't run, couldn't drive.

But he could still shoot, could still wave, could still use those hand gestures that Sherlock had picked up on quickly. He couldn't kick Sherlock as a way to shut him up, but he could elbow him.

What was wrong with John?

But the crying had ceased, and Sherlock fell asleep brooding over it.

xxxxx

When Sherlock woke up, the first thing he did was go to John. He knocked on the door and entered when he heard the grunted "Yes?"

John was struggling to sit up. Sherlock brought his wheelchair up and helped his friend into it. He wheeled John out to the kitchen table. "It's going to be hard to make tea in a wheelchair," he heard John mutter to himself, the words clearly not intended for Sherlock to hear. John never complained about doing things that he could do himself that were fairly easy, like walking, making tea, or cleaning.

Sherlock noticed the doctor trying to wheel himself away from the table and towards the kettle. He intervened and pushed John back so he was in front of the table. "The doctor said take it easy, and that's exactly what we're going to do."

"I am a doctor, and I say that it isn't exactly a workout to make some tea," John replied, looking up at his friend.

"Yes, well, as that is, John," Sherlock quipped as he grabbed the kettle and filled it with water,"you're one of the most stubborn people I have ever met, and, as they say, doctors make the worst patients." Sherlock put the kettle on and waited. "Now how long would it have taken for you to do that?"

John's cheeks turned pink. "I don't know, you won't let me try." Sherlock smiled. "Once I see you able to wheel yourself away from the table in less than a minute, or less than twenty minutes, then you can try."

They chuckled a bit. Sherlock made John's tea and set it in front of him. "Sherlock," John sounded surprised,"I'm impressed. The last time you attempted to make tea, you scorched your arm with boiling water and nearly set the house on fire." He wrinkled his nose a bit. "And the tea tasted awful."

"Yes, but it was nice to see your face when you walked in the door," the detective teased. "It was almost as good as the time you saw me in the kitchen hanging up mistletoe. You did tell me to be traditional, John."

John turned red at the memory. "Yes. Well, I'd rather not kiss you with all of Mycroft's hidden cameras all over this flat." He took a sip of the tea and didn't make a face. Sherlock was filled with triumph.

That was when Sherlock's cell phone rang. The detective dug it out of his pocket and answered it. "Yes?"

"Sherlock," came Lestrade's voice,"we've got a bit of a problem."

"I told you, I'm not taking any cases until John is adjusted. I need an assistant and-"

"No, Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted. "I don't need you on a case. It's about Oskar Olsewski." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What about him?"

"On the night John was shot, he immediately made a run for it, and...I'm afraid he got away." Lestrade's voice was heavy. Sherlock felt rage bubble up inside of him. "Inspector, are you telling me that-"

"Yes. Olsewski is out there right now, and we have a feeling he'll be coming after you and John. We're doing our best to find him, and if not, we'll get you somewhere safe."

Sherlock was furious. He walked into his bedroom so John wouldn't overhear. His friend didn't need any more stress at the moment.

"It's not enough! This is unacceptable," Sherlock hissed into the phone. "It was your job to arrest him!"

"I know, but we're doing all we can," lestrade insisted. "And even if John wasn't injured, I wouldn't let you try to find him. It's far too dangerous. We think he's out for revenge. He would kill you, and John, too, if he got the chance. He suffers from several mental instabilities, I checked his files. He could do anything."

Sherlock sighed. "What do I tell John?"

"I don't know. How do you tell a frustrated person that the madman who paralyzed him for life is still out there and trying to get revenge?" Lestrade supplied. Sherlock just murmured,"Right. Bye," and hung up. He walked back out to the kitchen.

"What was that about?" John asked. He had finished half of his tea, the detective noticed. He picked up his violin and sat down next to John.

"Lestrade," Sherlock answered. "He, uh...he asked if I would check out a case, but I refused. It was boring, and my assistant is unable to help me as of late."

"Oh." John looked a bit ashamed, but took another sip of tea and didn't say anything else.

Sherlock just hoped he was doing the right thing.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you liked it! Sherlock's got some tough decisions to make. And just how dangerous is Oskar Olsewski? Is that a real name? Does it even sound Polish?**

**FUN FACT: John said that wouldn't want to kiss Sherlock with Mycroft watching. He never said that he didn't want to kiss Sherlock.**


	4. Was It All Just A Dream?

**A/N: So here's Chapter 4! I'm so awesome. At least, I hope I am. To you people, anyway. And this does not tie in with any episodes from the actual series, because I've only seen, like, three and a half. That may change, though. Here you are, my good people!**

* * *

John should have been used to the nightmares by now.

He shouldn't have been frightened by them, waking up in a cold sweat, breathing hard, his bed and clothes soaked. He remembered he would wake up and cry because he was so scared and because he was so relieved that it was just a dream.

He didn't have that luxury now. Now, John would wake up from a nightmare and it would be real. It was basically the same each night.

_It started with the sound of gunshot. Every time, that's what it started with. John would be running with some other men he knew, and he watched as one by one of them fell. There was only one left. He looked over to see who it was. He was tall, with long, thin arms and legs, and pale skin._

_It was Sherlock. The detective turned his head and the gray eyes pierced John like knives. The scenery suddenly changed, and they were running in a dull, muddy place with barbed wire fences and ridiculously thin, dying people. A smokestack omitting thick black smoke caused him to cough, and he was covered in soot that smelled like burning flesh. They were dressed in disgusting black-and-white-striped clothes, John's being far too large for him, and Sherlock's being too small. They turned a corner, and John heard the click and the sound of one gun in particular being fired._

_John jumped over and pushed Sherlock out of the way. Sherlock stumbled, let out a surprised huff of air, and he and John both tumbled to the ground._

_John had been shot. He could feel it. It hurt. He couldn't put it into words. He had been hit in the back; he could feel the bullet embedded in his spine. He couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't move his legs. Nothing could help him or the pain. He saw Sherlock lying a few feet away. While the bullets kept coming, John army crawled through the mud over to his friend._

_That's what could help. Knowing Sherlock was OK. Knowing that he had done something right; that he had saved his friend's life. Only that would ease the pain- if only a bit._

_"Sherlock." John's call to his friend was a breath, a murmur, one voice divided into ten. Sherlock's head was turned straight up at the sky. John sat himself up and looked down at his friend. "Oh- oh, no..."_

_Sherlock's eyes were open, blank, shrouded with a mist that would never leave. He was staring at the sky, though he couldn't see it. Blood covered his head, matting his dark curls. And John was sure Sherlock couldn't hear him, but nothing would stop him._

_"Sherlock!" Where was John's voice? It seemed to be gone, yet just a moment ago it had been there. He couldn't hear himself. John was screaming his friend's name. It should be loud enough to carry through their entire flat and farther. But this wasn't their flat. This was a sick dream, and John was filthy and covered in mud, stuck in a concentration camp filled with innocent children, the sick, and the dead._

_Sherlock was one of them, now._

_"Sherlock!" John screamed silently, apparently gone deaf. He continued to scream. "_Sherlock_!" He shook the detective, but all he did was stare at the sky with those misty, blank eyes that would never see again-_

"Sherlock!" John sat up in bed. It took him a minute or so to realize that it as a dream. None of it was real. He breathed deeply. He needed a glass of water and a change of clothes. John moved to leave his bed, and remembered that not all of it was just part of his dream.

So John Watson could do nothing but lie back down in his bed and sob, breathing in the scent of Sherlock that he loved so much that covered the bedsheets.

It was loud, but he didn't care. John cried, he let tears flow down his cheek. he was crying harder than he had in a long time. Sobbing. Wailing. Like a child who had lost his favorite toy. He was lost in everything that had happened. If he hadn't moved in front of the detective, it would be Sherlock who was paralyzed and in a wheelchair, not John.

_It's better this way_, John told himself. _Lives depend on Sherlock. You're just a doctor. Just an assistant. Just a blogger. If Sherlock couldn't move his legs, it would be horrible. It's better that it's me. Better me than Sherlock._

That didn't make John feel any better. He continued his loud sobbing, not noticing the footsteps creaking almost silently down the stairs and over to the room that was actually Sherlock's. He did notice the door opening and someone walking over to the bed where he was crying. John turned away from the person, not wanting to feel any more ashamed. He couldn't stop crying. He had failed Sherlock. What if his friend was really dead outside of the dream as well? What if he had been dreaming this entire time and he was still in the hospital? What if he hadn't really saved Sherlock?

That only made John's sorrow increase. He continued to sob, continued to let tears flow, continued to embarrass himself. The person slipped into the bed next to John and turned him towards him. The person held John close, allowed John to sob openly into his chest. He ran his thin fingers through the doctor's sandy hair, soothing him greatly.

John fell into a dreamless, peaceful sleep in warm and caring arms.

* * *

When John woke up, he was alone. No one was holding him dearly, no one telling him that it was alright. He supposed that it had simply been another delusional dream. John sighed, disappointed, and only brightened when Sherlock came to help him into his wheelchair and made him tea.

John did notice, however, that his door was already open. He distinctly remembered Sherlock closing it after placing him in bed.

* * *

**A/N: Wow, that was a lot of italics, I'm sorry. I find it necessary to italicize during dreams and thoughts. And don't worry, this story won't be the plot and then John angst every other chapter. At least...I wasn't planning on it being.**

**Fun Fact: I'm pretty sure that my mom still thinks Morgan Freeman is playing Bilbo Baggins in the new Hobbit movie.  
**


	5. Out To Get Me

**I am so sorry I took so long. I have a lot going on with school and I'm obsessing over multiple things at the time. And the science fair, but I'm sorry, I hope I haven't let any of you down. Here you are then.**

* * *

Although he wished he didn't have to, John grew easily accustomed to life in a wheelchair. Of course, he wasn't complaining about Sherlock making him tea every morning- the reason still eluded him, but he certainly never asked.

About a week after the accident, Sherlock decided John needed to try going outside. He carried his friend down the stairs, yowled for Mrs. Hudson to bring a chair, then sat John in the plastic seat and brought his wheelchair down.

Once his friend was in the wheelchair, Sherlock opened the door and John's breathing hitched. The detective knew that he was remembering entering Olsewski's house, and the harpoon that had nearly struck Sherlock.

"Are you ready, John?" Sherlock asked. The doctor nodded quickly, as if to say,"Yes, let's just get this over with."

Sherlock wasn't convinced. "Are you sure?"

John stared out the door. They were just people, just normal citizens he didn't know- but Olsewski could have spies, people to take him out, people with guns, snipers, people with bombs and big cars.

"John?"

And suddenly, in John's eyes, every person he saw passing the open door had a handgun in her purse or a machine gun in his cello case, or a sniper in their duffle bag. Every move was towards him, to get him and kill him.

John gasped, suddenly too afraid to even breathe. He started shaking his head and covered his mouth in horror. His eyes grew wide and he gasped for breath. Sherlock pulled him back and shut the door. He knelt down in front of his paralyzed friend, who was fighting for air, starting to hyperventilate.

"John! John, don't worry!" Sherlock said. "It's alright, everything is alright. Look at me!" John's wide brown eyes finally turned to his friend, speaking volumes. He was so afraid, Sherlock saw. So vulnerable, like an innocent child who had lost his parents.

"John, it's Sherlock. Remember? Do you know who I am?" When John didn't answer, only continued to battle for air, Sherlock grew concerned. "_Do you know who I am_?" Nothing.

"John, listen," Sherlock breathed in loudly, slowly, and then breathed out. "Copy my breathing patterns." In slowly, out slowly. In, slowly, out, slowly. "Can you hear me? Do as I do." In slowly, out slowly.

At long last, John mimicked Sherlock's breathing and began to grow calmer. When he was under control, he buried his face in his hands. "Sherlock, I- I'm sorry-"

"No, you're not. And, even if you are, you have no right to be. It isn't your fault." John didn't answer, and Sherlock knew that he was ashamed because his ears had turned pink and his left hand was twitching slightly. The detective was furious. His friend had been disabled for life and mentally hurt so badly- because of something that had happened 60 years ago. John was near broken.

They stayed there for a while, John in his wheelchair hiding himself in shame, and Sherlock kneeling in front of him, wanting to do something but unsure of what exactly that was. Finally, John sat up and sighed.

"I really am sorry, Sherlock. I'm going to have to go outside sometime soon. I need Physical Therapy, I need practice in this thing. I'm sorry I freaked out."

Sherlock simply said,"We'll try tomorrow."

The next day was the same. John had a near panic attack and refused to leave the house. They tried the day after that. No progress. And John was barely getting any practice in his wheelchair.

Sherlock was more intrigued than he was worried. A psychological issue occurring in John. A panic attack each time he tried to leave the flat. That was certainly interesting.

The problem was that Sherlock wasn't sure how to handle it.

Sherlock was perfectly fine when he was up to his elbows in human entrails. He enjoyed it, even. He could deduce what a person had eaten last Wednesday by the way they had tied their shoes. He knew if you were having an affair just by glancing at you.

But now John was suffering a severe emotional crisis and the great Sherlock Holmes was stumped.

Sherlock noticed that John hadn't gotten any calls from his family. A drunken voicemail from Harry was highly possible, but not a true concerned family member bothered to call to see how John was holding up after he was shot and paralyzed from the waist down.

So each day passed when John didn't receive any support from his family, and there was no improvement with the doctor's anxiety.

John refused to eat some nights. He was adjusted well enough in the flat that he could easily get around (and make tea). His arms had grown stronger, and he only needed Sherlock's help to get into bed occasionally. Sherlock continued to aid his friend in dressing, but only with pants and underwear. John was perfectly capable in putting on his socks and shoes and shirt. He looked proud of himself every time.

But no matter how proud of himself John had felt that morning for making tea unsupervised, he still screamed in his bed each night, tortured by his dreams. And each night, the unknown admirer came to hold and calm him.

Sherlock couldn't stay away from cases much longer. He was sure something had come up. And he was itching for something. But he couldn't do it without John. And John refused to go outside.

Sherlock had to buy groceries now, because Mrs. Hudson had refused to after two times and John wouldn't leave the house, reduced to a sniveling child by his fears. He couldn't take up any more cases because of this and it was driving him absolutely crazy.

They needed a solution.

* * *

"Close your eyes."

"Sherlock-"

"Just do as I say."

John did as he was told and shut his eyes. "Ready?" the detective asked. Feeling more relaxed, John nodded.

The door was opened. John could hear the bustle of activity, the people walking. He couldn't see them with his eyes closed, though.

And that was why John was afraid.

He couldn't see the enemy. He couldn't catch the glint of silver from a handgun in the sunlight, or warn Sherlock that the woman passing in front of the flat was pulling out a rifle from her bag.

It just made it all the worse.

"Do you want to go outside?" Sherlock asked, seeing John struggling to control himself. The doctor shook his head. "Please, please, no."

The door didn't close. "Why not?"

"I can't, I'll be killed!" John confessed. "Please, Sherlock, close the door."

The door was finally shut and John apologized many times over. "God, I'm never getting out of here. They're all out to get me, I'm not safe..."

"No one is going to kill you, John," his friend kneeled in front of him. "Olsewski is..." Sherlock felt bad about lying to John. Not informing him about something was one thing, but having to lie to him... "Olsewski is locked away. He murdered a person. He could have murdered more than her, but he's locked away. You have nothing to fear."

Sherlock was hoping that that would put his friend's mind at rest. John just say there. "What if there are other people wanting to kill us for putting him in jail. What if you get hurt?"

"Then you're only delaying it and making them angrier by becoming a hermit. Would you like to try again?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock's phone buzzed. He stood and looked at the text.

_I've gotten a psychiatrist. He'll be over at 10 AM sharp. - M_

Sherlock smirked. For someone who seemed so hard, Mycroft truly did care. One of the man's soft spots, besides Sherlock, was John. The detective could tell that Mycroft thought of John highly, possibly for nearly (and single-handedly) transforming Sherlock into a human being, and had also come to see the doctor as the normal brother he never had. Doctor, soldier. More experience with the public than Sherlock and Mycroft combined. So naturally, his older brother wanted to do anything to help John.

_The psychiatrist better be good_, Sherlock thought as he lifted John to carry him up the stairs. But, knowing Mycroft, he would probably be the best in the country.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you liked! Thank you for your reviews and loyalty!**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes never said,"Elementary, my dear Watson," in any of Arthur Conan Doyle's books. The phrases "Elementary" and "My dear Watson" were used in the stories, but never together.  
**


	6. A Moment of Private Feelings

**A/N: I'm so sorry I haven't been updating. To be honest, I'm still thinking of ideas on how to stretch out the plot and what will happen in the climax. But we're getting there! Thank you to those who are sticking with me, specifically johnsarmylady: Thank you for your reviews and help! I appreciate everyone's reviews and expect a Fun Fact after each of the chapters!**

* * *

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Watson."

"Dr. It's Dr. Watson," was the immediate response.

"Of course, Dr. Watson," the psychiatrist, Dr. Pennypacker said. "Now, uh, Dr. Watson, could you tell me what's troubling you?"

John shifted uncomfortably. He glanced at the impatient detective in the kitchen, his arms crossed and having a Death Glare Battle with the oven.

"I- I can't leave the house," John confessed. He wished Sherlock would leave. Having to admit it was one thing; having Sherlock listen to it was worse. It was embarrassing, because Sherlock never had these sort of trivial issues, though to a real human it would be a huge issue. John felt a surge of rage.

But Mycroft didn't hire idiots. Dr. Pennypacker turned to see what John was glancing at and understood. "Mr. Holmes," he called,"would you be so kind as to leave while we're having our session? It is between Dr. Watson and myself. Doctor-patient confidentiality, if you will."

Sherlock scowled and marched out of the flat. John winced as the detective stomped down the stairs and out the door.

"Would you like to tell me how you came to be in a wheelchair, Dr. Watson?" the psychiatrist inquired now that Sherlock was gone.

John took a deep breath. "I pushed him."

"Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes." John pointed to the door. "Someone tried to shoot him. I pushed him. It hit me instead."

"Mmhm. And do you regret your actions?" Dr. Pennypacker jotted something down.

John was stopped by that question. Did he regret taking a bullet for Sherlock, a bullet that had ruined his life?

* * *

Sherlock walked down the sidewalk, fuming but happy to be out of the horrible place he had spent a week in doing nothing. The thoughts in his head were extremely childish but he couldn't help them.

Damn Olsewski...damn the psychologist...damn the surgeons...damn the wheelchair...damn John-!

Sherlock stopped and swerved into an alley, suddenly furious, all relief to have escaped the flat vanished. He kicked a trashcan hard. The noise echoed around the buildings as the metal cylinder fell and spewed its contents.

_Damn John! All his fault! Everything! Dammit! Damn John Watson!_

What was he thinking? Damn John? What for?

He wasn't kidding himself. _You know what for! For playing the bloody hero and pushing you out of the way of a bullet! You're taller than him; if you had been hit, it would have hit your thigh. You wouldn't be paralyzed. Not like John._

And damn John for joining the army! He was too quick, too troubled and suicidal already. The man suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Add never-walk-again to his heap of troubles and they had a full sandwich of mental issues.

_And damn John for keeping me inside and missing cases and making me carry him up and down the stairs only for him to have a panic attack at the last second and bathing in his own self-pity and loathing and for being in a wheelchair and making me leave for half an hour just so he could_ talk_ nonsense to some man with a worthless degree and keeping me up all night with his bloody nightmares and making Mycroft pay for a therapist as if we can't afford one on our own._

_Damn John! It's all his fault!_

* * *

John had to think hard. Sherlock was his best friend and was far more important than John to his clients. And John needed Sherlock. If Sherlock were in a wheelchair, John would never leave him. Sherlock would need all the help he could get (though would _never_ admit it).

But it wasn't Sherlock paralyzed; it was John. John who would never walk again. Sherlock didn't need John. He was a true invalid. This wasn't psychosomatic. This was real.

"If I hadn't, it would be Sherlock in this wheelchair," John thought aloud. "Sherlock is very secluded and hates people who can't stay up to par with him. That's just about everyone. He finds me fascinating. I don't know why; nothing special about me. I help him with his cases...but I can't anymore. He'll get someone new, now that I'm not as independent. He'll think it's so tedious to have to carry me up stairs and hills. He does already. I'm waiting. He'll leave, or make me leave. And he won't do it gently, either."

"Why are you so convinced that Mr. Holmes will abandon you?" Dr. Pennypacker squinted his eyes a bit. He was truly curious.

"Because that's just how he is," was the answer. "When he's bored, he shoots holes in the walls," John nodded towards the smiley face and his therapist's eyes widened. "When he's happy, he'll jump around the apartment. When he doesn't like someone, he'll say it straight to their face."

"But if he wished you to leave, then he would have told you so by now."

John shook his head. "I don't know. I like to think that he's just grown so accustomed to me by now, he just doesn't want to admit that everything's changed for the worst. He's a very stubborn man."

* * *

There was a shadow at the end of the alley. It saw Sherlock. It was staring at him. The detective saw nothing through his white-hot rage. He seethed and was breathing hard. It wasn't _fair. _It should have been _Sherlock_ with the gun wound. It should have been _Sherlock_ in the hospital, _Sherlock_ bleeding on the floor, _Sherlock _having the limp everywhere. It shouldn't be John in a wheelchair.

_John. In a wheelchair. Forever. _The rage again, blinding him. It wasn't _FAIR!_

A black car pulled up next to the alley and the detective turned on it, knowing it was Mycroft. Why couldn't he leave Sherlock alone?

He ran up and kicked the car, hoping to make several bad dents, but nothing could penetrate his _perfect_ brother's car. He pounded on the tinted windows and shiny black paint, hating his brother for hiding, for caring but not telling John anything, like he was bloody God and was better than Sherlock because he could afford actual help. The detective yelled,"Mycroft, come out right now!"

The door opened and the older Holmes brother stepped out. Sherlock, expression livid, grabbed the fancy suit collar and was suddenly inches away from his sibling, wanting to scream at him, hiss a threat, but nothing came to mind.

"Brother, what are you so angry about?"

And Sherlock realized that he didn't know anymore.

Mycroft nodded at the blank look on his brother's face. "Come with me, Sherlock. I believe you've...attracted some unwanted attention..." His wary gaze turned towards the shadows. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder into the alley, his eyes searching for one thing. He turned and took a step forward, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock," his brother advised,"don't go after him. He could do serious harm to you, and you would be alone. John would not be there to protect you."

The detective glared at him. "If John wants to protect me, he'll have to come outside first."

Sherlock marched off into the alley, and Mycroft followed.

**A/N: And there we have it! What is in store for Sherlock and Mycroft in the dark recesses of the alley? What will John think of his therapist? Will you keep reading to find out? (The answer to that is YES.)  
**

**Fun Fact Of The Chapter: You will give this chapter a lengthy review.  
**


	7. Lost One But Found Another

**A/N: Sorry this chapter's short and it's been a while. Here you are.**

* * *

"Dr. Watson, how long have you been in a wheelchair?"

"Uh...a little more than a month, now."

Dr. Pennypacker stared down John, his green eyes questioning over the rims of his glasses. "Don't you think that's a legitimate amount of time for Mr. Holmes to decide that you're unneeded? You said that he was exceedingly stubborn. But you also said that he was intolerant of people who are in his way. One month seems a long enough time for him to make a decision."

"He's more stubborn than you think." John did not want to talk about it any longer. He knew he was right, he didn't need anyone telling him otherwise.

Dr. Pennypacker sensed this and changed the subject. "I don't believe I was hired to talk about Mr. Holmes. I came to talk about you. What's the trouble, Dr. Watson?"

John took a deep breath. "I can't leave the house." The therapist wrote something down in his notes. "And why not?"

"Because..." John murmured. "Because...it- it-" He suddenly got a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. "It feels like I'm being watched..." he breathed, moving his head, searching for something, anything, anyone. He half-expected a sniper to be waiting for a signal right outside the window.

"And is this all the time?"

John kept looking around, twisting his body to look behind him, paranoid. "No," he replied, distracted,"it's...just right now...and, and whenever I...open the door downstairs..." Finally, his brown eyes locked in on something.

A video camera. On top of the fridge.

A video camera that wasn't Mycroft's.

* * *

Mycroft chased his younger brother down the alley. Sherlock saw the shadowed man and ran faster. So did the the shadowed man.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called. "Sherlock, stop!" Sherlock didn't listen. He kept running, turning where the shadow turned, his footsteps matching the man he was chasing. He wanted this man, wanted to catch him, wanted to hurt him for hurting John, for making life so boring and dull and complicated-

And the man was gone. Suddenly, disappeared. The detective stopped and spun around several times, growling in frustration. No, he had been right in front of him! He had been so close!

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. They were in a very dark alley. Even Sherlock couldn't be sure of where in London they were. "Stop. He's gone now, and you didn't even know if it was him. You need to calm down."

"How can I?" Sherlock exclaimed. "I was so close, Mycroft! I swear I could have caught him! For John's sake! He still thinks that Olsewski is locked away! How am I supposed to be calm when he's still trying to kill us?"

What is the matter with you?" Mycroft demanded, breathing hard. "You're awfully high-strung nowadays."

"Nothing," Sherlock's tone was clipped. "John has enough on his hands already."

"Yes," his older brother replied,"one of those things being you, complaining and growling and lying to your friend." Sherlock's gray eyes narrowed. "I cannot believe you," the detective hissed. "You've been spying on us with your cameras! Listening to every secret word, watching our every moves! And right after John was discharged from the hospital!"

Sherlock knew that he shouldn't continue, that Mycroft was already embarrassed and down for the count, but he was boiling; on fire with his rage. "Olsewski is still out there! He's crazy! He could be doing anything! You've been staring at us like bloody God with your secret cameras! He could be tapped into them! He could have found our address! He could have someone in our flat right at this-" He stopped very suddenly.

"The therapist."

* * *

**A/N: Cliffhanger! *dramatic chord* I want this to be a long story overall, but I'm not promising anything. The Hobbit comes out ithe streets next week! I'm so excited, it's the same day as my orchestra concert!**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Martin Freeman is a vegetarian.**


	8. When It Rains, It Pours

**A/N: I'm so very sorry I've been away for such a long time, I'm having problems with a new school I'm trying to transfer to and I've actually been able to sleep. Again, I apologize. Please enjoy this chapter, I promise the next one will be up soon.**

* * *

Sherlock should have been out of breath, but he wasn't even breaking a sweat. He was powered by pure rage when he had pursued the shadowed man. Now the only two things he could comprehend were fury and fear.

Sherlock Holmes was afraid. But he wasn't afraid of anything- no, never. He was afraid _for_. Afraid for John, and what would happen to him if he was left alone long enough with the fake therapist. Nothing good, to be sure.

He was running faster than he had ever run before, to the flat, so that the world and his usually crisp-clear thoughts were all a blur. It didn't matter if John was driving him crazy with boredom and anger over such a stupid phobia- the doctor was his friend, his best and only friend. If he were ever killed, the detective would never stop blaming himself.

And Sherlock would miss the way John's sandy hair would burn into a golden halo in the morning when the sun moved behind his smiling face, and the way his chocolate brown eyes would melt and sparkle into an image Sherlock could never delete no matter how hard he tried, not that he did try-

Sherlock shook away these thoughts and ran faster, though they stayed in his head along with a perfect image of John.

* * *

"Being watched by whom?"

John ended his staring match with the small camera to turn back to his therapist. "What?"

"Who do you think you're being watched by?" Dr. Pennypacker repeated, gazing at his patient expectantly. John pursed his lips, eyes on his left foot. He willed it to move, to twitch, _anything_. It wouldn't _move_. Because of that man who had people everywhere!

"By everyone. No matter what I do, it seems that everyone is out to get me. Just random people I don't know, walking down the street. Working for that man who shot me...waiting for the right time..."

"Yes, after such a traumatic experience, I would be at least be a bit afraid of Olsewski as well." Dr. Pennypacker acknowledged, again staring at John over the rims of his glasses as if the paralyzed man were a toddler who was lying to their parents.

"Who?" John's mind was far away. "Olsewski," the therapist prompted,"the man who shot you."

John's stream of thought was coming back strong and on-target. "Sorry, I- I don't think I mentioned his name, Dr. Pennypacker." That made a shiver run down the handicap's spine. He swiveled his neck around as far as it could go to look at the video camera again.

It definitely wasn't Mycroft's.

"I'm sure you did, Dr. Watson, or else I wouldn't know it. Would you like a cup of tea?"

John was so confused, his weary mind still trying to piece it all together. "Er...yes, thanks..." He held his head, eyes narrowing. He hadn't said his name...had he? What if he didn't? How did Dr. Pennypacker know it? John could only think if two possibly answers.

1: Mycroft had told the therapist everything, which was the most likely answer. John and Sherlock were all over the news, anyway. The story had to be on everyone's mind.

2: Dr. Pennypacker could be a spy trying to weasel his way into John's life so he could kill him. He was working for Olsewski and was waiting for the right opportunity.

The doctor knew that this was a horribly unrealistic idea, but the more he thought about it, the more it stuck in his mind and he couldn't get it out. He wished he could simply delete it like Sherlock! The kettle shrieked and John jumped. He hoped no one had seen.

"D-Dr. Pennypacker," John managed out when his therapist returned with a cup of tea. "I- I- I'm sorry, but- I have to ask you to leave."

Dr. Pennypacker's eyebrows narrowed. "But John, whatever trouble you're having, that's what I'm here for-"

"Please, leave." John's voice became hard and clenched, and he sounded absolutely dangerous. "I would like you to leave my flat _now_, Dr. Pennypacker." His hands turned to tight fists.

"It's alright to be angry, John, but I'll depart if you wish. Would you like to resume our session next week?" John sighed, realizing how silly his ideas were. "I- yes. I'm sorry, but I'd very much like to be alone at this moment, Dr."

The therapist nodded. He placed the tea on the coffee table and stood. "Of course, John. See you next week?"

The doctor nodded, pursing his lips and giving a short wave goodbye. Once the door shut, he swiveled his wheelchair around to address the camera on the fridge. Of course, he couldn't reach it, but when Sherlock returned-

John's thoughts were interrupted by a loud gasp and a thump from downstairs. He turned his wheelchair back around, hating how slow he was in it, knowing that he should be outside, practicing in it, but he was too much of a coward to do it. But that wasn't important at the time. What was important was the thumps, screams and loud accusations coming from downstairs.

John wheeled to the door, wheeled backwards to open it, then hurried to the top of the stairs. His eyes widened. "Sherlock!"

The detective had his fists full of Dr. Pennypacker's shirt collar. The therapist himself was being forcibly pressed against the left wall, his glasses askew and his expression one of absolute fright. Sherlock had a murderous expression on his face. His gray eyes were daggers and his teeth seemed razor sharp. Mycroft stood next to him, looking shocked at his younger brother's reaction, but not daring to step in.

Sherlock ignored John. "What were you trying to do?" he demanded in a low voice. "Poison him? Choke him?"

"I- I don't know," Dr. Pennypacker gasped,"what you're t-talking about!"

"Would you kill a defenseless man when he has no use of his legs?" The tall man hissed. "Do you have no morals?"

"Sherlock!" John yelled at him. The Holmes brothers at last looked up the stairs to the man in the wheelchair. "What on _Earth_ are you doing?" the doctor demanded. He gestured with his eyes to his therapist, who wasn't daring to let his alarmed eyes leave the man who had an iron grip on his shirt.

"John!" Sherlock spoke first. "This therapist of yours is a spy! For Olsewski!"

"Sherlock," his brother interrupted softly,"let's not jump to conclusions-"

"No!" This was the most emotional John had ever seen his friend. Sherlock's cheeks were slightly flushed as he snapped his head back to Dr. Pennypacker, his hands were clenched so tightly around the accused's shirt that they were shaking slightly and his knuckles were whiter than the rest of his pale skin. He truly looked like he would murder the man if given the chance.

"Sherlock, stop it!" John insisted, leaning forward in his wheelchair, wanting his legs to just _work_ so he could run down the stairs and pull his friend away from the poor therapist, so he wouldn't need the therapist and he could just walk around and not be such a horrible burden to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I think that's enough," Mycroft intervened, putting a hand on his brother's tense shoulder.

"_No_!" Sherlock repeated, shouting through clenched teeth. "He tried to kill John! But I won't let him! No one will ever dare try to kill my John again!" He shook Dr. Pennypacker as he said this, absolutely furious.

"Sherlock," Mycroft cried. "Let go of him!"

John leaned forward even further, wanting so badly to simply stand and walk downstairs to calm the detective down, though his mind was still thawing out from hearing Sherlock call John 'his'. "Sherlock, that's e-"

Then John got his wish as he leaned forward too far and toppled down the stairs head-first.

* * *

**A/N: I hope it wasn't too short and you all enjoyed it. I promise that the next chapter will be up soon. Please read and review!**

**Fun Fact: Arthur Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock Holmes books, was friends with American escape artist and magician Harry Houdini.**


	9. It's Cold Outside, And I'm All Yours

**A/N: I hope you like this chapter. I might have taken a bit of the dream from The Boy In the Striped Pajamas (OK, a lot of it), but I tried to keep it original. I own nothing, absolutely nothing.**

* * *

The memory of being carried up the stairs like a child by none other than Mycroft Holmes still made John blush just thinking of the man himself.

The doctor winced as he shifted on the couch. His strained back hurt horribly, but he was lucky, considering he had fallen down half a flight of stairs. The only other things that were injured was his head (which hurt the most; it pounded like a drum and John couldn't shut his eyes for a moment after he had banged it quite hard on the first step) and his ankle was sprained, but since he was paralyzed, he didn't feel a thing. John was sure that he had a mild concussion, and tried to see if it was mild or something a bit more severe, but the room continued to spin and his head continued to pound, and the doctor couldn't think straight.

"Do you need more ice packs?" came Sherlock's voice. John lied,"No, Sherlock. I'm as fine as I was two minutes ago when you asked." The good thing was that his pupils weren't dilated, so John could rest and be fine, which he was.

But he hissed in pain and clenched his teeth at the beating his skull was receiving, and Sherlock went to the fridge and replaced the ice pack that was on his friend's head with a colder one.

His pale hand lingered on John's skin just a bit longer than necessary.

"Thanks, Sherlock..." the detective heard his friend murmur. His lips twitched upwards but he said nothing. He went back to the kitchen, pretending to make tea until he heard the doctor snoring softly.

Slowly, the tall man walked back out to the couch where John slept. Perfect, loyal John. Sherlock trusted John Watson with his life. He was the detective's best and only friend. He was honest, smart, fair, and Sherlock respected him, and...something else. Something he...he just didn't understand.

For once, Sherlock Holmes was confused.

He looked at John's peaceful face, taking in every aspect of it, at how young the doctor looked when he was sleeping, how many streaks of dark brown littered his short, blond hair, how long his eyelashes were, how his pink lips moved as if forming words, or kissing an invisible person.

A sudden thought popped into Sherlock's brilliant head. He would like to be that one person. No one else. Just him. Him and John. He brushed back a bit of the slumbering man's hair with a most gentle touch.

But John would never want that. John was straight. And Sherlock was supposed to be married to his work. So the detective could only take the hand of the one he wanted most and daydream about how he, Sherlock Holmes, was in love with John Watson.

* * *

_Gunfire. Enemy soldiers. That was what he woke up to._

_John was being pushed along a muddy path, having no idea as to where he was going. He was in the center of a long line of sickly men, all with sunken eyes and stomachs, all hope lost._

_There were soldiers following on the sides, making sure no one lagged behind or tried to escape the thick, long line. There were several gunshots and yells. John looked down as it started to rain, and he carefully stepped over the body of a fallen elderly man, lying face-down in the mud._

John, are you alright?

_They were ushered into a small room, crowded together so tightly that John barely noticed that everyone's clothing had disappeared, including his own._

_'Dear Lord, what is this place?'_

_John could barely breathe. Why were they in here? Everything was so confusing._

_There was a loud roar in the room when the metal door shut tight and the lock clicked. John swiveled his head back and forth, looking for and exit or something that would tell him what was going on._

John?

* * *

_Gunfire. Enemy soldiers. That was what he woke up to._

_John was being pushed along a muddy path, having no idea as to where he was going. He was in the center of a long line of sickly men, all with sunken eyes and stomachs, all hope lost._

_There were soldiers following on the sides, making sure no one lagged behind or tried to escape the thick, long line. There were several gunshots and yells. John looked down as it started to rain, and he carefully stepped over the body of a fallen elderly man, lying face-down in the mud._

John, are you alright?

_They were ushered into a small room, crowded together so tightly that John barely noticed that everyone's clothing had disappeared, including his own._

_'Dear Lord, what is this place?'_

_John could barely breathe. Why were they in here? Everything was so confusing._

_There was a loud roar in the room when the metal door shut tight and the lock clicked. John swiveled his head back and forth, looking for and exit or something that would tell him what was going on._

John?

_"It's alright, it's just a shower," a man called over the screams of terror. "It's only a shower."_

_"It's a lie," a voice next to John said before he could breathe a sigh of relief. He looked up to see Sherlock, just as naked as everyone else yet, unlike John and the others, was just as healthy as he always was, his piercing eyes the same beautiful gray as they always were, just as bright, his body as graceful and as porcelain as ever, his voice just as wonderful to hear. John couldn't keep his eyes off of this wondrous being, but was too afraid not to ask anything._

_"What's going on, Sherlock?" John heard himself ask in a ragged voice._

_"It's not a shower, John, that's all."_

_"Ready for the Zyklon B. Insert into the chamber." The voice was booming and was all around them. John turned his puzzled around and around, searching for the source of it in vain. It came from nowhere, yet everywhere. Unknowingly, John clasped hands with Sherlock. With no information, he was terribly frightened, too afraid to move._

_"What is it, Sherlock?"_

_"It's not a shower, John, that's all."_

_John looked up at the man. "Yes, I know it's not a shower! Don't leave me in the dark, tell me so I know how to protect you!"_

_Those gray eyes were looking into his soul. "Don't you need to protect yourself as well? Because if you don't, I will. And this is how I intend to."_

_"What's going on? Tell me."_

_But suddenly all of the air left the cramped room and Sherlock's eyes closed and the detective crumpled to the ground like a marionette. Every person in the room did the same, until it was only John left, on his knees and somehow still alive after everyone else died._

John!

_"Sherlock?" John shook his dead friend. "Sherlock! No, don't die! You can't be dead!" He jerked his friend back and forth, harder, harder. "Wake up, wake up!"_

Wake up, John.

_He started to cry over the beautiful man. He loved how his dark mop of curls tangled on his head so evenly, how his hands were so pale yet so warm and gentle. John's fingers were still wrapped in Sherlock's, but the detective's body was limp and had no warmth or feeling now. Immediately, John emptied until he was a shell, and the only thing he felt was longing for one thing._

_John wanted to die and be with Sherlock._

_There was a gun in his hand. Would you do it? a voice from nowhere inquired. Would you really kill yourself just to be with Sherlock?_

_John looked from the gun to the dead Sherlock. His dark eyes hardened and he pressed the gun against his temple._

_Yes._

John, wake up!

_John pulled the trigger_.

"Wake up!"

John did so with a gasp. He sat up, regretting it instantly as a bolt of lightning shot up his spine, the part that wasn't paralyzed. The doctor let out a cry of pain and breathed in and out harshly. He looked around. He was still alone. He didn't want to be alone. He wanted Sherlock.

Still panting and still in intense pain, John breathed,"Sh-Sherlock?"

A voice behind him answered,"Yes, John, I'm right here."

"You- you died." John was covered in sweat and tears, and his breathing remained erratic.

"That was simply a nightmare," Sherlock's voice assured,"but I'm glad you're able to sleep. Lie down and relax. I'll wake you up later."

Rather than admit that he had a nightmare like a child had and that he was in pain, John tried to do as Sherlock said, but the new injury in his back was too much for him, and he cried out again. The disturbance spread to his bad shoulder, which had only been aching at first. Now it seemed to throb and convulse in time with his head and back.

"John, why do you have to be so stubborn? Sit up, you nitwit." The doctor knew the insult was in good means. John leaned against the couch, legs as useless as ever, and almost gasped when a pair of thin, graceful hands rested on his shoulders and rubbed circles in the disturbed muscles.

"Just relax, you'll feel much better soon."

"Thank you," John was able to get out. He could hear the smile in Sherlock's reply. "You're welcome, John."

The massage felt heavenly at that very moment. John knew that whenever Sherlock so much as lay a finger on him he would feel this: A luxurious, beautiful feeling that melted him from the inside out and then send a tingle through his bones that made John putty in this man's hands.

John had to remind himself: _Sherlock will never feel the same way. He's married to his work and nothing will ever happen between the two of you. You're friends. Be glad that he even tolerates you._

John couldn't help it, though. Sherlock Holmes was his one true friend. He cared for him more than anything he had ever cared about before.

_I love you_, John thought, staring straight at the ceiling in front of him and admitting it all to himself.

And somehow those three words slipped out of John's mouth.

The massage ceased but the fingers were too shocked at the words to leave John's back. Upon realizing that he had said it out loud, John opened his mouth again but nothing would come out.

At long last: "...John...were you talking to...me?"

John didn't hesitate to try to cover up his poorly thought-out words. "No, just- it was just a stupid thought, it just came out. I'm sorry, I'm all messed up from the fall. I just meant thank you for helping me." To John's immense gratefulness, Sherlock said nothing more about it, and even continued rubbing and kneading his friend's sore muscles.

"You had a nightmare," Sherlock said. It wasn't really a question, but it wasn't really a statement. John swallowed, images of multiple scenarios of a dead Sherlock flooding his mind. Nevertheless, he mustered up the solidity to respond,"Yes."

"And I was dead."

"Yes." This time, John's response shook. He didn't want to think about Sherlock dying. It frightened him to no end.

"What did you do?" Had John heard correctly? Sherlock wanted to listen to something as boringly human as a nightmare? John reasoned with himself that this would never happen again, because Sherlock didn't love him, so he told him.

"I...I tried to wake you up," he admitted. "You didn't, of course. And...that's when I woke up, actually." Alright, that part was a lie, but John knew he could never share the ending of this particular nightmare with anyone.

Sherlock, as blunt as ever, inquired,"Were you afraid?"

"I-" John started to say, turning his head to the side to address his friend, who took his hands from his back. Sherlock wanted to know? Or was this something to tease John about?

Sherlock stood and knelt in front of the couch and looked his friend in the eye. "Were you?"

John looked right back at the sparkling gray and said,"Yes, I was, Sherlock. Because I didn't know it was a dream, and I really thought you were dead."

Sherlock's eyes suddenly narrowed and he stood, walking around the room. "Why would you be afraid if I had died? Because you thought it was real? Because you couldn't do anything to stop it?"

"Yes!" John was incredulous. "Of course, because you're my friend!"

"But I shouldn't be," the detective snapped. "If we had never met, you wouldn't be in a wheelchair. If I hadn't taken you along- if I hadn't been so _stupid_-"

"Sherlock, there are no 'what if's. It's done now, and I'm paralyzed. That's all." Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of his wonderful hair and looked- if John dare say it- baffled. Like he just couldn't figure something out.

"But- but why are you still here? You're paralyzed, your life will never be the same, and you're still here with me!" Sherlock turned back to the man on the couch, his expression one of true inner torment because he could not grasp John's motives. "_Why_?"

John would have smiled at how utterly flummoxed his friend was if this wasn't such a deep conversation. "Because you're my friend. And I trust you more than anything. Do you...do you want me to leave?" His eyes traveled to his unmoving legs.

"Of course not!" Sherlock cried. "Why on Earth-" He stopped himself and his eyes returned to a larger size. "You think I'm going to get rid of you because you're in a wheelchair," he deduced. "You think that you're useless to me now, you think that I'll get bored and tired with you because you're handicapped and stop talking to you, stop negotiating with you, stop...stop being your friend."

There was a very thick pause as both of them waited, for what, only they knew.

"Well?" John wouldn't look at him. "Why haven't you done it already? Why haven't you replaced me yet?"

"_Replace_ you?" Sherlock hissed, voice instantly venomous. "You thought that I would _replace you_?"

John looked up at the furious man, whose emotions he challenged, and snapped,"Yes! Of course I thought you would replace me, Sherlock! Of course I thought you would get rid of me if I could no longer climb stairs or jump across buildings or be fast enough in any situation to save you or myself or anyone who needed to be saved! Now that I am basically good for nothing in whatever you are doing because I cannot move my legs! _Yes_, I thought you would replace me and I'm still waiting for you to!" He eyes were back on his damn legs, too embarrassed to maintain eye contact after such a long confession.

Silence now. Sherlock stared at the floor, still so _confused_. Had he made John feel that way? Hadn't he basically just explained that he wanted John as his assistant, that he would never get rid of him? And why couldn't John tell that he wanted this man in front of him as something more?

"Jesus, Sherlock, why haven't you gotten rid of me yet?" John whispered, tears in his eyes, turning to his friend for an answer.

Sherlock moved so quickly that, at first, John couldn't register the fact that his friend had stolen a kiss from his lips.

The kiss came quickly, yet it lasted what seemed to be years and was so very tender in the most loving way. It was the most extraordinary thing in the world. The doctor thought that perhaps he had died after falling down the stairs and this was some blissful afterlife. Sherlock Holmes was kissing him, and John Watson was kissing back, not daring to miss out on this opportunity.

Sherlock brought his long fingers and entangled them in John's hair, and John wrapped his arms around the detective's neck. Sparks flew. John was floating on air and Sherlock was with him. The moment seemed to last forever. John had always fantasized about what it would be like, what it would taste like.

The real thing was undoubtedly better than any fantasy.

Sherlock's mouth was moving against John's but never leaving it for a moment, as if they had been melted together, and John truly hoped that they had been. The detective's lips were soft and languid, compressing against the doctor's. John had always thought of it as sentimental and useless, but Sherlock tasted like coffee and sugar and John wanted more, he wanted it all, because he loved Sherlock so much.

The two broke away at last to breathe. Their noses were centimeters apart and they gazed at each other with passion in their eyes. "John," Sherlock whispered,"when you said before, that you love me- did you mean it?"

"Yes," John whispered back. "I love you. I'm assuming you feel the same?"

Sherlock answered by kissing John again.

Wrapped up in the wondrous moment of such pure love, John forgot entirely about his suspicions with the camera on the fridge, which zoomed in to admire them.

* * *

"So...look what we have here. Young love! This is even better than before. They're so adorable...it will be all the more fun watching that love extinguish."

* * *

**A/N: Who was the voice? I don't even know who it was. Really, it's true. I'm so glad I'm back, and I hope you're all glad I'm back as well.**

**Fun Fact: When Sir Arthur Conan Doyle tried to kill Sherlock off to end the series, there was such an outcry he was persuaded to continue writing about Sherlock Holmes. That's like J.K. Rowling trying to kill off Harry Potter in the third book!**

**Special Fun Fact No. 2 (just this once): Originally, Arthur Conan Doyle was going to have Watson be the detective, but he decided otherwise.**

**If everyone who reads this reviews (or if I get a massive amount of lengthy reviews) I just might have two Fun Facts next chapter. Or maybe the rest of the story. This is me begging and blackmailing my fans. Thank you for reading and please review!**


	10. A Little Fluff And Some R&R

That night, as he lie in bed, half-asleep, half-awake, John thought.

His mind (and his heart, he reminded himself, before realizing how cheesy that sounded) had been hijacked by Sherlock. John could only think of him, his porcelain skin, his twinkling gray eyes, how it felt when his thin hands entangled themselves in his hair. The detective's sweet lips on his own, never wanting to let go, wanting to become each other.

As he got closer to actually becoming unconscious, the thoughts turned more menacing. Now Sherlock's eyes were narrowed in disgust at John: John who couldn't move his legs, John who couldn't climb stairs, John who needed someone to push him up a ramp.

Then his closed eyes were bombarded with a storm of dead Sherlocks. The detective's eyes were open, staring into nothing, and the gray beauties were no longer twinkling, but blank and dull, so very dull. So very un-Sherlock.

"John."

His eyes snapped open to see the face of his lover. "Sherlock? What are you doing here?" John inquired groggily.

"Another nightmare?" was all the detective would say, and the doctor affirmed it with a sigh and a nod. So Sherlock pulled the covers up and slid into the bed beside the paralyzed man, then wrapped his long arms around his lover and pulled him close. John let his head rest on Sherlock's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He let himself breath slower, let himself drift away...

"Just think of me, John. I will always be right here, with you, and I will never let anything happen to you." It was whispered, and Sherlock made sure John was too far gone to actually hear and apprehend the phrase, though some part of him wanted John to know that he did really feel this way.

John fell asleep and dreamt of nothing but the heavenly feeling of being in this man's arms.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up, it was morning. The sun smiled through the windows, beaming onto him and announcing the start of the bright day.

The detective blinked, then looked down at the man who had his arms wrapped around him. John's hair was a bit mussed up, but seemed to give off its own sheen of golden light, mixed in with a bit of firey orange and the color of a pure halo outlining it. The doctor was still asleep, his face slack, making him look ten years younger than he actually was. He breathed in and out steadily, his eyes closed, and, although he was very much asleep, his arms were embracing his lover quite securely. Sherlock couldn't get up or move away without waking his lover.

Not that he wanted to move away.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and let his cheek rest on his lover's hair. How he loved this man. John couldn't see his emotions, because it was silly for his personal thoughts and feelings to be some display for everyone to see.

If they could all just feel what Sherlock felt for John, then they would understand.

Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed. He and John, lying like this, entwined together, fit like two pieces of a puzzle that you hadn't thought of to put together before. Now that they were together, they were perfect. No awkward arms sticking out, no random foot coming out of the blankets, no smothering. Wonderfully relaxed.

"Mmm..." John grumbled, waking. Sherlock smiled at how...oh, it was wonderful that his thoughts were all his own...how _adorable_ the doctor was at that moment. "What time is it?"

Sherlock smirked. Not his You're-A-Git-And-You-Sound-So-Stupid-Right-Now smirk, or his "I-Have-Just-Ultimately-Outsmarted-ou-And-Insulted -You-All-In-One-Sentence smirk. It was a brand-new, never seen before, minty fresh John-You're-Absolutely-Sweet-And-Adorable-And-I-Wa nt-To-Eat-You-Right-This-Very-Moment smirk.

"9:12. You don't have to get up-" Sherlock stopped himself. There wasn't any way John could get up. How stupid of him. Sherlock wanted the words to explode and never have existed, but it was too late.

But John just smirked his own smirk, one that didn't have a name, though it was wry and beamed irony. "Not like I can."

The two of them lie there for a time, until it was nearly 9:35, and John said,"Want breakfast? I'll make some tea." Sherlock agreed. "Yes, I'm actually a bit hungry. Cup of tea would do nicely." He turned to his lover. "Want me to make toast?"

John raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Sherlock Holmes offering to make toast? But it's so _boring_."

"Yes. It's simple. You take two slices of bread and press a button. I've got the easy job. And you can make the tea!" The detective prodded John in the ribs, making the doctor gasp and move away. His lover smiled and swung his long legs out of bed and to the kitchen.

John scooted himself over to the side of the bed where his wheelchair was. He had been working on his upper arm strength and it had payed off. With a few quick movements, John was in his wheelchair and making his way to the kitchen to make tea.

John's groggy smile grew when he saw Sherlock walking around the kitchen, wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, barefoot, his hair mussed up from sleep and absolutely John's.

"Tea cannot wait, John!" the detective announced much like a battle cry, an untoasted slice of bread threatening to project itself from Sherlock's mouth onto John's forehead. "Yes, yes, alright," the doctor muttered, wheeling himself over to put the kettle on. As they waited, Sherlock placed himself in his lover's lap.

"Yes, hello," John said, voice a bit muffled. "Although I do love you, it's a bit hard to breathe with your spine up my nose."

Sherlock swiveled around with as much grace as a crane, legs on either side of John's and his forehead pressing against the doctor's. "This better?"

John blushed. "Yeah..."

Sherlock was leaning forward to say hello to John with his lips when the kettle squealed and he jumped up to answer it.

"I thought I was making the tea?"

"Doesn't matter who does what, this isn't school," Sherlock teased. "And I do know how to make tea, John." He poured his lover a cup while John wheeled over to the couch, still a bit tired, and moved himself onto it, lying down and smiling at the smell of fresh tea.

He had nearly dozed off when someone set a plate and a cup down on the coffee table. John opened his eyes. "If you wanted to stay in bed, you could have just said so," his lover's voice announced.

"I didn't."

"Oh, well, then, let's have some telly, then. Anything. I've got your tea ready." Sherlock helped him sit up to eat and watch something that they didn't really know and weren't really interested in; but it wasn't that bad that they hated it. Soon, Sherlock was lying down with his feet resting on John's lap. By afternoon, John was lying on Sherlock, head on the detective's chest, listening to his heartbeat, knowing that he was alive. Sherlock had his arms wrapped around the other man.

They belonged to each other.

They fell asleep like that every night, most nights in bed, arms wrapped around each other, and there were no nightmares for an entire week while they were in love.

* * *

**A/N: Wow, it's been a while. I am so very sorry for the months-long-wait for the updates, but I have literally had many auditions that I have been practicing for and freaking out over. Great news, though! I was accepted into a performing arts high school! I'm trying to be accepted into as many orchestras as I can, and it's easy since I only know six other people who play the double bass.**

**Next chapter is up immediately!**

**Fun Fact: Mark Gatiss, who portrays Mycroft Holmes also has also written two episodes of Sherlock, is openly gay. (My friend is gay and I openly support gay marriage! :D Hopefully soon in all 50 states!)**


	11. Ball And Chain

**A/N: WARNING: The chapter contains spoilers for A Study In Pink!**

* * *

"Please, Sherlock, don't be like this!"

"No, John. We're not taking this any further. What happened happened and I thought it right at the time. I'm not apologizing for my actions and we're ending this now."

John rested his forehead in his palm. "Sherlock, it's not the end of the world. It won't kill you to apologize to the man you had up against the wall and were screaming at." The detective was sitting on the couch, long legs drawn up to his chest. He had his arms crossed and a childish, indignant expression set in stone on his face. John had to hold back a smile from his spot in his armchair, relaxing, trying not to hurt his back or shoulder. His head still hurt, but he had taken something for it, and the swelling had gone down quite a bit after two days of multiple ice packs.

"I'm sure Dr. Pennypacker won't even come in if he knows you won't attack him again," the doctor said as he rustled the newspaper. Sherlock picked up his violin and plucked the G string. "Then maybe we can get you out," the brooding man suggested. John rolled his eyes behind his paper. "That's what the therapist is for, Sherlock. You can't do everything on your own, we tried it, remember?"

"Well, let's try it again. Right now." Sherlock was instantly out of his seat, the instrument discarded for the time being. He went to John and placed his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning in so his face was a millimeter away from the other's. He had a rare smile pulling on his lips, as did John. "Do you trust me?" The words were a whisper. John wanted to answer yes, that he trusted Sherlock with his life, with his family. John wanted to reply that he would willingly give him his own heart, had it not already have been stolen quite successfully by the detective. He wanted to scream it to the world, but their lips were only just touching, and-

That was when someone knocked on the door. Both men started and looked over as it opened. There stood Mycroft, who smirked when he saw the position his brother and the doctor were in. "Excuse me if I'm intruding on anything, but I'm here to deliver the therapist, who has decided not to press charges." He stared pointedly at his sibling, who, swift as a frightened bird, backed away from John. Mycroft departed, leaving Dr. Pennypacker alone with the detective and the doctor.

At John's request, Sherlock picked him up and placed him in his wheelchair; both men wanted to kiss, however quickly, but though it inappropriate with the therapist here.

Sherlock cleared his throat and moved away from John. "Well," Sherlock announced in his usual condescending drawl, ignoring his lover's gestures towards the therapist,"I must be off to make sure Lestrade hasn't gotten too many people killed with his stupidity." He swiftly left the flat.

John sighed. "Dr. Pennypacker, I really am sorry for the way he acted last week. He is very...protective, I'm not sure why..."

"Well," the therapist sat down on the couch and opened a notepad with a pen in his hand,"I'm afraid we can't do anything for him at the moment, as I am payed to talk to and about you, John. So, please, tell me, have you made any improvements with your phobia?" The doctor shook his head, swiveling in his wheelchair to face the newcomer. "No. I hurt my back and my head when I fell. I've mostly been lying down for the past few days."

He wrote that down. "I'm sorry you were hurt. I do hope you recover." Neither wished to speak of what had happened to the therapist in that predicament, so the subject was changed.

"So have you been experiencing any unpleasant memories from the incident?" Dr. Pennypacker inquired. "Nightmares, sudden daytime flashbacks?" John nodded in consent. "Nightmares, definitely. They're not about him, though- Olsewski, I mean. They're about his- his obsession. He had this thing with World War II. His grandfather and mother were in a concentration camp, and his grandfather was murdered in front of her. He said she had a nightmare, then suffered a heart attack from the fright and died. I wish he weren't so ill. He seemed smart. But he had an entire room covered with pictures, of the most..." John grimaced,"...gruesome things from that time period. I have nightmares about those pictures, that I'm part of it and I continue to die...that Sherlock continues to die."

Scritch, scritch, scritch, went the pen.

"Sherlock was the man who..." the therapist cleared his throat, his eyes on the man in the wheelchair. "That man who left right before our session." John said,"Yes. He is very stubborn, I asked for him to apologize..."

"Well, that's of no concern, John. We're here to talk about you. Somehow you keep forgetting that..." The man with glasses smiled and continued. "Do you believe that you could go outside without having an episode, John?"

"I..." the doctor struggled with the answer. "...I- I don't know know. I haven't tried in so long, but I do trust Sherlock."

"And do you trust me, John?"

"I...suppose I do. I don't see any reason as to why I shouldn't. I want to leave," he explained,"but my mind won't let me. It's just too frightening, for some reason. But it is rather silly," John continued,"because Olsewski's in jail. It's ridiculous to be afraid of something that can't hurt you." John remembered when he was younger, and he had been mortally terrified of thunderstorms. When he was twelve, and a storm struck the sky, John would clamp his hand over his ears and crouch in the stairwell where there were no windows, his eyes closed. One time there had been a huge thunderstorm, and the power went out. John couldn't stay by himself in the dark stairwell, and was reduced to jello by nature, sobbing and shaking. It was a full-blown phobia. His grandmother told him to imagine that it was the angels bowling in heaven, and whenever the ball struck the pins, it hit so hard that the sound boomed for the Earth to hear and created the lightning. John was never afraid again, even after he stopped believing any religion in the deserts of Afghanistan.

The pen stopped scratching the paper. The therapist looked up from the notepad he was jotting down notes on, his his face bunched up in a confused expression. "In jail? What are you going on about, John?"

John gripped the arms of his wheelchair tightly, his eyebrows knitting together. "Olsewski is in jail for murdering that woman, and for shooting me." Although it wasn't a question, John didn't feel very confident in the statement.

"John, didn't anyone tell you?" Dr. Pennypacker's voice had taken on a tone of worry and pity.

"Tell me what?"

* * *

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock groaned as he strode out the door of the flat. His older brother walked beside him. "I just want to say congratulations," the older Holmes shrugged, his tone so aggravatingly nonchalant.

"On what?" Sherlock growled, knowing full well what had been meant.

"On you and John. I knew it would happen someday. Perhaps you won't die a virgin after all..."

"Yes, perhaps I will, and although that hasn't happened yet, it will be far better than dying after having sexual intercourse and remaining alone with no one to love." Sherlock knew he shouldn't have been so cruel to Mycroft, he wasn't even in that bad a mood, if he was in one at all.

But his older brother merely offered a faux-smile and a quiet,"Not everyone finds true love in their lives, Sherlock. Only the very lucky few. And the Holmeses were never known for their affection and hospitality. John isn't like you. He needs attention, and visible love, I'm sure. I hope you're prepared to give it to him."

Sherlock wanted to reply that he was ready in every way to give John anything he desired at the drop of a pin, whether it be love, sex, money, food, silence. The list went on. He loved John and would truly do anything for the man that he desired.

All Sherlock did, though, was turn his gray eyes to look into Mycroft's. His older brother looked back and stopped walking. His sibling's eyes, usually gray and as cold and hard as stone and ice, now had thawed and showed a new depth. They were now deep like a warm, bottomless tub of mercury.

For Mycroft, it truly was a beautiful sight.

A nod was all the older one had to give the younger one to communicate that he understood. They broke eye contact and started to walk again, at a slower pace this time.

"He's quite a catch," Mycroft quipped, which had Sherlock smiling, and Mycroft smirking wider than usual. They walked in silence a little while longer, before Mycroft sighed.

"You lied to him, didn't you?" If he had been wrong, Sherlock would have turned on him in a split second, ululating at him and spitting on his shoes for ever incriminating him of lying to the love of his life.

But Sherlock just replied,"Yes and no. I never fibbed-"

"But you never actually told him," his brother finished for him. Mycroft sighed, knowing it to be the truth. "He only wants to help, you know. You would be dead by now if not for him. He has to know what's going on or the worst could happen. Don't you remember the cabbie? If not for John, you would have committed suicide and wouldn't have known Moriarty's name in advance. He saved your life."

"He didn't have all of the information then and he was fine."

"He wound up in the wrong building, Sherlock. If it weren't for the luck that you were only separated by two windows and four feet of grass-"

"I was probably right-"

Mycroft took ahold of his brother's shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "Yes, _probably_, Sherlock- but not absolutely. You couldn't have known. It was only a guess. You have to tell him."

Sherlock shouldered his way out of the older man's grasp. "And what?" he snarled. "Have him afraid to leave his room? He can't look out of the house, Mycroft, that is how overwhelmed he is! The memory of Olsewski is what's holding John back and he's only getting better with the knowledge that the man who rendered him unable to move his own legs is behind bars where he can't escape! I don't care if it's a lie or not, I just don't want him to be afraid!"

Mycroft's gaze softened. "If-" he began, but was cut off by Sherlock's cell phone ringing. The detective answered it, and saw it was John. "His session isn't over yet. What does he want?" he asked aloud, curious, not aggravated. He answered.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, would you come back to the flat? I need you, now." John's voice was urgent and Sherlock replied,"I'm on my way," before hanging up, and was off without a second glance at Mycroft.

When Sherlock returned to their flat, Dr. Pennypacker was gone. John sat in his wheelchair, his back facing his newly returned lover. His head was bowed and his body was tense.

"John, what is it? Is something wrong?" A thought crossed his mind that reminded him that he was probably- Sherlock visibly flinched at the word- right about the therapist. What if he had forced John to call him and then drugged him? Or killed him?

The latter thought sent Sherlock's mind and emotions into a whirlpool of panic, and he strode over to the forever-seated man. "John, what's happened? Are you alright?" He let several tentative fingers drop onto his lover's sandy hair, which were, quite suddenly, batted away. Sherlock deduced quickly,"You're angry. And tense. Your back is hurting you." He reached forward to massage the hurt from his partner's shoulder and back, but John swiveled around to face the detective, his face twisted into a horribly furious expression. He had a newspaper in his lap. "What is this?" was all the doctor demanded.

"What's what?"

"Don't ask me what it is- you know what it is!" John thrust the paper into the detective's hands, then turned so only the right side of him was facing his lover. Sherlock didn't need to read the headline to know what it said.

**MENTALLY ILL MAN, COMMITTED OF HOMICIDE AND ATTEMPTED HOMICIDE, ESCAPES AUTHORITIES**

Sherlock didn't know what he was going to say, but he was going to say something. "John-"

"You didn't tell me he had escaped," John cut him off, his eyes fixed on some point on his lap. His voice was very quiet, almost a whisper, yet so intense that it made Sherlock want to curl up on his bed and be left to shrivel up and die.

"No-"

"But you knew," the doctor clarified. After a moment, Sherlock looked down at the paper, then back up at the right side of John. "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John breathed in that same earnest voice. Sherlock tried,"I-"

"Why didn't you tell me," John swiveled so he was facing the detective,"that the man who shot me and paralyzed me, the man who tried to kill you, the man who has a room covered in pictures of sick, dying people and blood and death-"

_It was in his mind, John was one of them, he was so sick, so frail, wearing lice-ridden striped clothing. He was being beaten in the mud by a soldier, who had no mercy, and two feet away was Sherlock, and John was picked up and forced to watch as the gun was pressed against the side of the detective's head-_

John began to shake and sweat and his gaze became empty as it left Sherlock. The detective knelt in front of him and took either side of his face. "John! John, look at me!" He planted kiss after kiss on his lover's wet face, wanting the expression to become whole again, for the chapped lips mouthing incomprehensible words to kiss him back.

"It's alright, it's alright," Sherlock assured, and eventually, John returned to him, but he wasn't afraid of the sudden vision or of Sherlock's closeness. John's eyebrows narrowed and his mouth twisted into a scowl, and he placed his hands on the man's chest and pushed. Sherlock stumbled back from the force of it.

"_I cannot walk_!" John roared, his hands balled into fists. "Because of that man, I cannot _move_ my _legs_, and you failed to tell me that he is still at large!"

"Because I didn't want you to be under any more stress, John," the detective explained. "I don't want you to be afraid. You were getting better; I was sure that you would get over your fear very soon with the knowledge that you were safe, and you wouldn't be a hermit anymore, and if you found out after you were able to go outside, you wouldn't be affected and would still go outside." John's fingers laced in his hair, clutching at his throbbing head. "This is not about me being afraid!" he cried. "This is about you! This is about you not trusting me enough to let me know something! You can't just withhold that kind of valuable information from me!"

John lowered his voice considerably. "I- I love you, Sherlock. Don't you feel the same? Don't you love me enough to trust me?"

"John, of course I do," Sherlock whispered, taking a step forward.

"Well, apparently, not enough to trust me with the fact that the man who tried to kill you- not me, Sherlock!" Sherlock was frozen. "He fired that bullet at you and I'm paralyzed because I love you!" John yelled. "And you can't even say the words to me! We've been together for almost a week, now, and you haven't ever said the words "I love you"! You can't even apologize to the poor man whose throat you had your hands around!"

"I thought he was trying to-"

"Yes, of course you _thought_!" John interrupted. "You thought he was going to kill me! You are so dramatic! You thought he was a threat, but you didn't _know_ that, Sherlock!" Sherlock was, for once, at a loss for words. It was all true. He didn't know anything. He had just wanted John to be safe. John wouldn't miss any of the major points. "Sherlock, I- I know that I can't walk, and I know I haven't left the house yet, but I am not a child. I can think, I can still protect myself. I have a gun, I know how to use it, I know how to protect myself and you!" Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John wouldn't let him.

"Yes, you!" the doctor continued. "You need protecting, because Olsewski didn't try to kill me, he tried to kill you!" John shook his head. "I can't walk because I love you, Sherlock Holmes. It isn't that complicated."

"John, I just-"

"Stop it, Sherlock." The plead came out as a breath. "Please, just- stop. I need to think."

Sherlock did. A hush fell over the flat, a heavy weight that was threatening to crush the atmosphere within.

There was absolute silence.

Outside their world, no birds chirped for entertainment. All the branches of the few trees sagged towards the black tar that grew stiff with anxiety. The wind held its breath, offering no tickled spirit for the leaves.

The world waited for John to decide, and it was killing him.

Finally, the pressure weighing on his shoulders was too much for the doctor.

"Leave."

"What?" Sherlock was sure that he had heard wrong.

"Leave, Sherlock. Please, go away. I need to be alone right now." John regretted the words ever leaving his mouth, and he wanted to take them back, have them be sucked back into his mouth and never return. But he knew that he couldn't. He could offer alternative words, but that would do no good, because, while he didn't want to be alone, he didn't want to take out his anger on the one he loved most, and he couldn't figure this out with Sherlock, who had lied to him.

He watched out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock stood, very laggard, lingering for as long as he could. Then, with no swoop of his jacket or know-it-all wink, he left.

The minute the door shut, John started to cry.

* * *

When Sherlock stepped outside, he wanted to cry. But he was Sherlock Holmes; he couldn't possibly! The last Holmes to ever shed a single tear was his great-great-great-great-aunt Imogene, who was an excellent actress.

Sherlock walked small steps, taking his time, trying not to cry. John would call him. He knew John. John would call. John would figure it out.

The second the detective stepped into the dark alley, the tear fell.

That was also when the strong-smelling cloth was slipped over his mouth and jammed up his nose, making him dizzy, making him struggle.

One last thought crossed Sherlock's mind.

_John is loyal. He will come._

A cloudburst of utter blackness shrouded Sherlock's vision and trickled into his mind. It soon swallowed him whole, and the detective knew no more.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you like. Looks like Sherlock's gotten drugged. Again.**

**Fun Fact: The famous deerstalker cap of Holmes was not ascribed to him by Doyle, but by the illustrator of the stories, Sidney Paget.**

**Please, please, please, Read And Review! I will take any reviews, positive or negative! Comments, concerns, compliments, angry hate reviews on how I could do a better job! Constructive criticism! It doesn't matter! Anything, PLEASE! I miss you people!**


End file.
